


the small things

by unholyconfessions (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Based on a Tumblr Post, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4558644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/unholyconfessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Stiles thinks Theo is <em>kind of</em> an asshole and one time he doesn't. (Well, maybe three.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the small things

**Author's Note:**

> Based on one of the many rivalry to romance AUs from [this](http://jessvcajones.tumblr.com/post/120366392656/rivalry-to-romance-aus) post on Tumblr.  
> 
>
>> You’re my jerk barista who purposely screws up my name when I order my caffeine fix AU.  
> 
> 
> Unbetaed. Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> Feedback is love! :-)

**one.**

The first time it happens, Stiles doesn’t think much of it. He hasn’t seen this guy around before, but it’s not like he hasn’t had to correct about every new barista that comes to work at this particular café. 

“Stuart,” the barista calls, and it takes Stiles a moment to realize that no Stuart bothers to pick up the coffee, so there must be no Stuart around.

He walks up to the counter, gives the guy—Theo, says the nametag when he glances at it—a tight smile and asks, “Is that supposed to be Stiles?”

Theo raises his eyebrows, his mouth shaping around a quiet _oh_ before stretching into a languid smirk. 

“Right. Sorry. Enjoy it,” he says, and there’s a glint in his eyes that Stiles can’t quite put his finger on as he takes the coffee, but he shrugs it away.

**two.**

Stiles gets a call from Lydia at an unlawful hour in the morning about an emergency at the hospital, and misses his good dose of syrup-filled, whipped cream-heavy caffeine.

His body complains about it all day long—that sharp little pain behind his eyes that can only mean one thing—but he doesn’t get to take a breather until the sun starts dipping in the horizon.

“Tall white chocolate mocha with caramel syrup and extra whip, right?” Theo says as Stiles walks in the door, not bothering to look up from whatever he’s working on.

Stiles can’t help a little impressed chuckle despite the strain in his shoulders. “Exactly right,” he says, and takes a seat by the counter, which he doesn’t do very often—but hey, it’s a good ten feet closer than his usual spot.

Theo smirks, picking up his gaze. “Comin’ right up.”

Stiles nods, watches as Theo finishes up the bright pink frappe that might as well be radioactive, and waits.

It doesn’t take long before he can smell the velvety, fresh coffee in the air, and it’s even less until he’s got the cup in hand, his fingers brushing over Theo’s as Theo hands it over to him.

“On the house,” Theo tells him, that smirk wider than before. And then, “Have a good one, Steve,” before he wanders off to another customer, leaving a trail of spicy cologne behind him.

Stiles doesn’t bother correcting him.

(Hey, free coffee, right?)

**three.**

The next time it happens, Stiles is taking Lydia out for coffee and hasn’t even bothered to slip out of his scrubs.

“Brought company?” Theo asks as they walk up to him, that glint in his eye again. He trails his gaze between them for a moment. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, simply, to both questions. He glances at Lydia and back, adds, “Plus an extra hot short Americano, black.”

“No problem, Stan.” 

Stiles nods his thanks and Theo nods back, his smirk disappearing. 

“Are you really that dense?” Lydia asks once they’ve taken their seats, her hands coming together across the table. Stiles gives her a look. “He likes you, _Stan_.”

Stiles scoffs, but doesn’t miss the chance to glance at Theo and voila, Theo’s glancing right back. 

“Shut up,” he mutters under his breath, his eyes snapping back to her. “He’s just _really_ bad with names.”

Lydia makes a little sound in her throat, her heels clicking to the floor. 

“Of course he is, but apparently he has no problem remembering your _usual_.”

Stiles stares at her for a moment. She does have a point. Kind of.

Goddamned neurosurgeons.

**four.**

Stiles hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours the next time he swings by, and the shop hasn’t opened yet.

His teeth are clenched from the cold and the fatigue, his fists tucked into his pockets to keep them warm as he starts walking away, when something catches his eye inside the café.

“Hey,” he says, backtracking to knock on the floor-to-ceiling window.

Theo shows up from behind the counter, missing his apron, a box safely cradled in his arms. He places it aside as he walks over to unlock the door, his eyes wild as he seems to take in Stiles’ state.

“You look like shit, Stefan,” is the first thing Theo tells him, smirking, and Stiles shakes his head instead of rolling his eyes, laughs.

“Yeah,” Stiles offers, wondering if Theo’s ever going to run out of names that start with ‘st’ to call him. “Long shift.”

Theo doesn’t smirk, this time; he smiles with teeth and pink, pink lips puffy from the cold, and Stiles’ mouth is suddenly dry.

“Need a fix?”

Stiles frowns as his brain processes the question, and then nods once, twice, letting his tongue over his own lips absentmindedly. “Yeah, yeah. That’d be great. I mean, I just thought I’d say hi. It’s fine if you’re closed. I do have a coffee machine at—”

Theo stares at him. _Stares_. Stiles’ brain short-circuits.

“On the house,” Theo says, his eyebrows raised with yet another smile, stepping aside so Stiles can come in.

Stiles hates it when Lydia’s right.

(Goddamned neurosurgeons.)

**five.**

Stiles manages to squeeze in a personal day between E.R. emergencies and surgery rooms, which translates to spending roughly twenty-one hours of his day in bed, disregarding the few times he gets up to use the bathroom or eat.

He’s only half-watching the rerun of Friends on TV when he hears the familiar clank of Lydia’s set of keys outside his door.

“Stiles!” she calls out, and he gets himself out of bed with only a mild grunt. “I have exactly one minute.”

She gives him a kiss on the cheek and places a coffee safely in his hand before her heels start clicking away again.

“Eat. I’ll swing by later,” she tells him, and is gone before he can thank her for the treat.

He stands in his kitchen for a good minute, coffee in hand, before he notices the cup says _for Stanley_ in a black marker pen, numbers scrawled under it in a hurry.

Stiles grins around a sip.

(He keeps the cup.)

**plus one.**

He convinces Lydia to cover a couple of hours for him on a slow Thursday, trying to keep his cool after a rather graphic conversation on the phone with Theo.

“Don’t forget to use protection, Dr. Stilinski,” she mumbles just loud enough for him to hear as he goes, and he turns around to give her a dirty look before she shoos him away with a wave of her hand.

The drapes are already down and Theo is closing up the shop when Stiles arrives. He waves Stiles in.

“I’m glad you called,” he says, smirking, one eyebrow tilted up high enough that it makes Stiles’ stomach drop to the floor.

Stiles takes his time meeting Theo behind the counter, but Theo doesn’t seem to have the same reservations.

He’s not complaining, at all—and how can he, when Theo’s got their mouths locked together in a bruising kiss, his tongue eating away at Stiles’ words—but this isn’t what Stiles had in mind after their, uh, _talk_ on the phone.

“God, the things I want to do to you, _Stiles_ ,” Theo purrs, Stiles’ name dropping from his tongue like liquid.

Stiles moans, his breath caught in his throat, and chuckles. “I think I already have a pretty good idea.” Theo’s teeth find his neck, with just enough pressure to hurt but not leave evidence behind. “But shouldn’t we go somewhere else?”

“I don’t think the owner will mind.”

Yeah, okay. It’s a little hard to concentrate when Theo’s— _oh_. Oh.

Stiles swallows dry, stammers, “How—how come?”

Theo gives out a sigh, pulling away, his fingers working his own shirt open with expertise, just slow enough to make Stiles’ mouth water, and says, “Because I bought the place a week ago.”

The moment Theo’s shirt hits the ground, Stiles’ only thought is _fuck it_.


End file.
